


When A Guardian Sleeps

by thelastbarricade



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Other, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbarricade/pseuds/thelastbarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guardians were human once.</p><p>  In esscence,<br/>  Jack Frost still is.</p><p>  He gets lonely. <br/>  He gets tired. <br/>  He wanted, once…to be seen. <br/>  Longed to be someone—something—with a goddamned purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When A Guardian Sleeps

 Guardians were human once.

  In esscence,  
  Jack Frost still is.  
  
  He gets lonely.   
  He gets tired.   
  He wanted, once…to be seen.   
  Longed to be someone— _something_ —with a goddamned purpose.  
  
  He has all those things now.   
  
  He has purpose and a name that is spoken on the tongues of more than just chastising or entertaining parents; or by myth tellers few and far. He has power and praise and domain and an epitome in the ways of fame.  
  He’s a Guardian.  
  It’s all Jack Frost could have wanted.   
  It’s all the other guardians told him he could  _need_.  
  
  But there is something he’s missing.  
  
  Some piece in the puzzle of this  _almost-yet-not-quite-purgatory_  that our dear mischievious spirit of Winter has missed.  
  And Jack doesn’t like to miss anything.  
  But the thought,  
  the desire,  
  the need for  _more_  worries him.  
    
  He’s still lonely.  
  And knowing Jack,  
  you can be assured by all measurable cost;  
  he will fix that for himself.   
  
  
  
\--  
  
  


 _“Is that what you fear, Jack…the **isolation**? ” Pitch lets his tongue slide across his bottom lip, up over his canine. His slender claws drag down the boys sides gently in comparison to what they could have been. They tickle Jack’s skin, make it prickle and rise and  **ache**. He shudders. He doesn’t move himself from the tendrils of shadows forming at his feet. He doesn’t flinch as they curiously run up his legs, over his ankles, his knees. He stands defiant; eyes wide, baby blue hues burning bright._  
 _He doesn’t move._  
 _He doesn’t want to._  
  
 _“I got nothin’ to fear, Shadow Man.” Jack huffs out with the perk of his brow as his eyes skim the tendrils once more. He cant hide the hint of fear flickering in his eyes. He purses his lips, expression defying him. He’s like a child taunting a plaything, a parent. He’s just waiting for someone to put him in his place. “I’ve got nothing to fear.” He repeats, voice hard, **baiting** ; It’s a damned lie, and Jack?  **Oh** , Jack knows it. _  
  
 _The Guardian of mischief and frosts’ smirk—despite his demeanor —quivers. He can still feel the dull ache against his sides, of claws dragging down across his skin. It fogs his mind and almost makes him…warm?_  
  
 _Pitchs’ touch reminds him of his own body, of its existence. Of its place. Of a time where it could feel and where complete indifference in the biological degree, numbness, didn’t exist._  
 _It was fear he felt._  
 _And Pitch? He knew this._  
  
 _What in the fuck had the kid even thought, soughting this out?_  
 _He was thinking of himself, of course._  
 _Of the screwed up emotion that had infected him. The longing, **loneliness** …a thought and concept that immortal beings should not hold onto or let fester._  
 _It could destroy them._  
 _Jack tempted the fates anyway._  
  
 _Pitch lets his lips curl up in the most inviting of smiles. He bites the full cupids bow of his mouth softly as he circles his prey. He appeares almost innocent in the lighting of the cavern. In this setting, on this stage, Pitch is God._  
  
  Even in his dream, Jack knows that power.  
  He can  **feel**  that power.  
  And it draws him that much faster; to the point where he’s falling…falling. Down the rabbit hole, back through the shards of shattered ice.  
  He’s falling yet he doesn’t scream.  
  Doesn’t feel the cold.  
  He just feels  **power**.  
  
  He feels Pitch.   
  
  
***

  Jack Frost doesn’t sleep.   
  It kinda’ comes with the whole  _immortal-and-having-been-dead-onceuponatime_  thing.  
  So he doesn’t sleep.   
  Not on his own at least.  
  
  But Sandy has been very tolerant of the frosty trickster.  Considering Jack’s temperment these past few days, his off the chart mood swings and endless bouts of silence; yeah, the Sandman definitely knows whats up.  
    
  The boys got to be love-sick.  
  That is totally the logical explanation, Sandy.  _ **Totally**_.   
  And who better to place the poor boy in a sparkle induced land of wonder than the good ol’ Sandman himself?  So when Jack comes to him whining once again about ‘Guardian Duties’, Sandman shuts him up with a tickle and a sneeze of his magic dust. He smiles, a little twinkling bit of dust falling from his chin as he nods. The deed is done.  
  
  Jack doesn’t know what hit him.  
  Hence the dream.  
  
  
  Jack hasn’t dreampt for so long. It’s rather sad, actually.  
  The last time he dreampt was when the man in the moon chose him. He learned about himself, about what…happened. He dreampt of his second creation, of wonder and joy and mischief and magic. He dreampt of his centre. Of what he wanted.  
  
  And now, with the power of Pitch Black consuming his thoughts,  
  his mind,  
  and his body;  
  Jack knew, too, what he wanted. He could feel it in the cage of his ribs, aching in his bones, in the frozen tendrils of his being.  
  He wanted that power—not for himself, no—he wanted it to have him.  
  And it was a terrible sight to behold when the boy wanted something because he often went through every mean to claim it.  
  
  Only in this case, he was the one wanting to be claimed.   
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Jack woke with a jolt. His pewter hues narrowed at the room around him. He was back at the lake, his final resting place, laying amongst frozen blades of grass; tendrils of ice surrounding where he touched. His staff was beside him, the patterns of intricate ice on its shaft glinting in the newly falling moonlight.

  
  He furrowed his brow at the lingering feeling of fatigue. He knew Sandy had given him a dose of his special  _perfume au de sand_ , hell, he was still shaking off bits glittering golden flakes as he sat upright on his elbows. “ _Hell_ ,” He groaned, wincing at the ache in his limbs. The Guardian stretched out his arm, reaching for his staff. His entirety ached, his being. It was an ache from which lingered in his head, spread down into his bones. An ache that consumed like the darkness spindling around him.   
  
  “Interesting.” A soft voice whispered from all around him. From the darkness that had just begin to creep in from the dusk.   
  
  Jack’s body reacted. He lifted himself from the patch of grass he lay on, staff thrown out before him, poised and pointed. He perked a brow, eyes darting about.  
  
“Over here,” The voice taunted, tone curious as it echoed around him.  
  
“Not really in the mood for games.” Jack called out with suprising calm, still slightly disoriented from a dream; an ache, he could not quite place.  
  
“Well now that’s no fun.” Pitch’s voice echoed from above him, sounding almost bored. His body solidified from the shadows, voice and form no longer amplified by the echo of the forests heart. His shadow spindles and writhed from the base of a tree. Lithe features almost bored as they looked upon the frozen prince. “Was that not your purpose? Fun? Mischief?” He sighed, flicking out his wrist in a tired manner. “And to think I was so dependent on this little meeting of odds of ours.” He licked his lips, eyes falling to the boys still pointed staff. He smirked.  
  
“Meeting of-?” Jack lowered his staff slightly, confused.  
  
“You called.” Pitch hissed, words slow, as if Jack should have known what he’d meant all along. “You think I have the time to be gazing down upon sleeping Guardians all night long?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jack smirks finally, placing his staff besides him, leaning upon it with a cocky swivel of his hips. “Shouldn’t you be creeping under some toddlers bed or something, whispering ‘boos’ and moaning about your misfortune?”  
  
  Pitch nods once, eyes narrowing, his smile growing all the more. His grin twitches slightly in irritation, but the dark not-Guardian simply holds his composure. His poise. Like always. “I’ve upgraded, apparently.” Pitch speaks matter-of-factly. He half-circles Jack, hands clasped behind his back. “You see, Jack. Dreams, as I’m sure Sandy has been so keen to tell you, are like radars. You give off an energy in your slumber. Each one unique…each a calling card. How do you think the Sandmans dust…” Pitch flicks one palm out. “Finds each child?” His index and thumb pressed themselves together to scrounge up in their friction the caricatured dark dust.  It falls around the Boogeyman, swirling on the light wind. “And you,” His breath is slow, intrigued almost. “Your calling card was…” Pitch tilts his head. “Interesting.”  
  
  Jack pursed his lips. He couldn’t remember much of his dream, flared images in slight presented themselves. Flickers of dark tendrils and that voice…slow, like thick aged liquor, and disorienting all in the same. He knows not exactly what he’d dreampt, exactly what his ‘calling card’ would have said about him, but damn his curiosity—he wanted to know.  
  
“I don’t dream often, booger-man, so I hope you got your fill of whatever it was-“  
  
“You don’t understand, do you?” He whispers, almost incredulous.   
  
Jack stares, brow perked with his lips upturned in waiting.  
  
  Pitch sighs. “Children.”  
  
  “Hey! I’m not-“  
  
  Pitch scrutinizes Jack closely, face suddenly flushing with a furious expression as his tendrils rise up around him. He is bare inches from Jack at this point, his power unmistakeable. Familiar.   
  Jack does not recoil, does not reach for his staff. He stands, lips slightly parted, frost mingling in the shadows. It was too close for comfort by all means but the frost prince felt almost…comftorable; content.  
  
  “I have not time for childs play.” Pitch growls and Jack, despite himself, shivers. The Boogeyman continues on.   
  “You warn your dear Sandman that Guardians do not sleep for a reason.  _You_ —” He clenches his jaw, tongue held by need to speak, eyes flickering dangeously in contemplation as he scans Jacks features. “ _Especially_. I do not take being called on lightly.”  
  
“You’re not makin’ much sense, boogey.” Jack whispers, eyes lingering.  
  
“Nightmares— _dreams_ —Jack,” Pitch grinds out as if speaking to an infuriating child. “Are not places for silly fantasies or contemplations.” His eyes meet Jacks, speaking far more than they led on. “Not for us. I live in their worlds, I take on their…essence; each nightmare. And with every calling card, with every nightmare, I am made. You called on me.” His voice turns up almost like a question at its end. “Yet you did not fear—did not reek of it in your slumber. Though you,” He pauses, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow. “dreamt of…me.”  He smirks, but it’s in confusion, as if enjoying some sick joke. “Why is that?”  
  
  Jack nearly drops his gaze. He holds steady, smile flickering between indescision and playing coy. “Sandman just knocked me out, ‘sall. And if I called on you,” He shrugs, licking his lips as he leans his hip on his staff. “It was probably to comment on your increasing creepiness.” Jack difuses his thoughts. Tries to pull away physically and emotionally from the all consuming force before him. Deny himself just a bit longer. Deny himself the fact that he wasn’t feeling the greatest right now, and that there were patches of his dream he just couldn’t quite recall…and that actually bothered him.  
“Like slitherin’ out from the base of a hollow oak at dusk in the light of the risin’ moon? Your shadows in tow and all? And that  _voice_!” Jack grins, making a mock ‘boo’ impersonation. “C’mon, Booger-man; what is this, ‘ _The Night before Christmas_?’” He perks his lips, the tremor in his body barely surfacing. “I know you’re ancient, but tell me you haven’t picked up some new tricks in all these years?”   
  
  Pitch leans in a breath closer, grin wide, razor canines flashing. “Well I suppose your wit can win you this round, dear Jack.”   
  
  Pitch lets his eyes linger on the boys for a moment too long. Jack’s smile falls. His jaw clenches. He is not thinking about Pitch’s smile…his lips. He is not.  
  
“But I warn you, the Guardians will not: I collect on the nightmares of those I am called upon by. And they are oh so rare, children included. Never, personally, have I been given the—” Pitch contemplates the right word. “ _Honour_ , of having been present in your - sweet - dreams.” Pitch nearly snorts. “And come to collect I will.”  
  
“You ain’t collectin’ on nothin’.” Jack insists with a proud perk of his chin. “I don’t know who you think you may be, Pitch, but you ain’t someone I’d be wantin’ in my dreams: so don’t flatter yourself.” Jack can feel the fear building in him, anger and denial only fueling it; need above all.  
  
  Pitch quirks his lip up in amusement. “Acceptance will come in time.” He muses, eyes holding a knowledge Jack knows all to well. Advantage. “But do call on me again, won’t you?” tendrils of ice mix in the shadows, the ebony tones consuming Jack’s own shadow. He clenches his staff tighter, knuckles nearly splitting under the pressure.   
“When perhaps you’ve come to terms with…” Pitch eyes the boys staff. “Your own needs. I have no time for childs play.” He repeated.   
  
  Before Jack can react Pitch turns away with his tentacle tendrils in tow. He smirks, leaning back into the edge of the tree he’d made his appearance from. “A little fear is healthy, Jack. It keeps people in line, keeps them at bay. It is a form of control,” He lingers on the final word. “You know.” The Boogeymans eyes flicker away, whites nothing more than blurred remnants as he melts away.  
  
“Well,”Jack sighed after a moment, flip kicking his staff up and into his hand. “That was fuckin’ dramatic.” He laughed nervously, shaking his messy white fringe. His body continued to shiver. He couldn’t stop that reaction, and just like the blurr that was his had-been dream, it bothered him.  
  
  All he could feel was need. He could feel Pitch’s control. The world control lingered in his thoughts, repetitively playing in Pitch’s accented drawl. It was a sick, masochistic version of his own minds broken record.  
  Oddly enough, Jack enjoyed it.  
  It felt familiar in a twisted way.  
  Like he had been there before, had it in his system, and now wanted more.  
  
 _A little fear is healthy, Jack_.  
  … _It’s a form of control_  
  
  Jack massaged his temple, tired. “Thanks, Sandy.” He whispered, dusting the remnants of gold glitter from his shoulder. “Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a works I am probably never going to finish, so my apologies. xx


End file.
